


Darkest Hour

by mudgems



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, Control Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Fighting As Foreplay, Loki (Marvel) Feels, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki is a goddamn mess, Mildly Dubcon Overtones, Questionable Coping Mechanisms, Sort Of, Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Valkyrie Does What She Wants, Valkyrie Has Issues Too, Valkyrie Is A Goddamn Mess, but handwaving the mid-credits scene, i don't known what happened, this was supposed to be smut but it turned into something else, with some sneaky feels in there too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 22:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15895341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudgems/pseuds/mudgems
Summary: They are not lovers. There is nothing soft or gentle about what they do. This is not a sharing of comfort or a tender release. This is a battle, a struggle, a breathless conflict in which they take what they need from one another. It is a mutual exploitation, one they’ve wordlessly agreed to honour.





	Darkest Hour

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. Needed to get some Loki/Val fight scene smut out of my head because _daamn_. Hot. But then Loki wouldn't just _let someone love him_ and this happened. Mood killer? Probably. *sigh*

They are not lovers.

There is nothing soft or gentle about what they do. This is not a sharing of comfort or a tender release. This is a battle, a struggle, a breathless conflict in which they take what they need from one another. It is a mutual exploitation, one they’ve wordlessly agreed to honour.

It was she who made the first move. It almost always has been since. When the memories come, when the walls close in, when she is painfully sober and aching and in need; when their dwindling supplies offer no succour -- how can there be so little of worth on a ship of this size? -- she seeks him out, and together they drown their fear in each other’s poisonous self-hate.

It had started as a fight. She had picked it, and he had reciprocated gladly. There’s a despair in him that calls to hers, and when the connection had been made it was like the snap of magnets locking. 

She’d gripped his face in her hand and pressed him back against the wall, and when she’d crushed her mouth to his he’d clutched at her shoulders with bruising force. They’d broken apart, their breath exploding from them, and the promise of retribution in his eyes had awoken something in her. She’d known then that she had him, and the rest had followed without thought.

She never asks for permission. And if sometimes the resistance he puts up is a little more than token, he always gets something out of it he needs. She makes certain of it. 

And as for her, this may not be what she wants exactly, but she makes sure to get it all the same.

She doesn’t make it easy. He likes the challenge she offers, and she craves the effort he makes. A part of her wants him to overcome her, to win, to force her into submission. The closer he comes the harder she fights, but the sweet possibility is enough to keep her addicted. Her vices run deep, it seems.

This time, it is he that seeks her out. 

It is late at what counts as night on the ship, and he stands in her path as she finishes her rounds. He has chosen a secluded sector in which to ambush her -- she is rarely so conservative -- and it is clear from his demeanor that tonight will be more than just heated.

He is slightly disheveled, his hair in disarray and his attire less than immaculately put together. There is a wild glint to his eyes that suggests much without inviting query, and she imagines she can see him quivering where he stands.

This is another of their unspoken complicities. They do not speak of what drives them to one another, and they do not comment on their need. The one kindness she can offer is the absence of pity. Anything more would be scorned and unwelcome, and she’s not sure she would care to offer it anyway. She certainly expects the same of him.

She strides to brush past him, a cool glance all the acknowledgement she gives. He snares her upper arm as she passes and pulls her close enough for her to scent the faint tang of sweat that lingers on his skin.

She snarls her disgust and rears back, but she is not able to pull him off balance. He has anticipated her recoil and pivots to follow her, using her momentum to trap her against the corridor wall. He leans into her and presses his face to her neck, inhaling deeply. She shoves at him and he plants his feet against her.

“Get _off_ ,” she growls dangerously.

He slams her back more forcefully in response. “No,” he whispers harshly at her ear.

The single word sends a thrill of anticipation through her at the same time as her muscles tense to meet the challenge. Her forearms strike outwards to break his grip on her shoulders and she kicks him hard. He is barely knocked back before she launches at him, and he deflects her next kick to one side.

They trade blows in quick succession and the adrenaline sings in her veins. It is pure and clean, and while neither of them draw weapons there is enough of an edge of danger to hold their interest. 

She lands an uppercut to his jaw that snaps his head back and he staggers backwards. She presses her advantage but recognises the feint too late and he catches her fist in his hand, using the force of her swing to twist her to one side. 

He captures both her wrists and this time she is pressed face-first against the wall, his hot breath on her cheek and his thigh pressed hard between hers. She bites back the urge to grind against it and throws back her head, mashing his lip against his teeth and earning herself a coveted grunt of pain.

The loosened grip provides enough opportunity to turn the tables and she ducks from under him, coming up again to one side with a jab of her elbow. His body folds itself sideways and she leaps at him, her legs wrapping about his waist and her weight bearing him down to the floor. They grapple for purchase on one another but she comes out the victor. She leans her weight forward, pinning his arms by his head. 

Glacial contempt is her reward and she revels in it, a mocking smile her response. 

“Release me,” he demands.

With a twist of his wrist he breaks one arm free and reaches to catch at her hair. She dodges the snatch and forces his arm down, trapping it against his side with her knee. Her forearm is steel against his throat as she leans forward again, the smile still on her lips.

“No,” she tells him sweetly, and he bares his teeth at her.

She claims his mouth aggressively. Indignant protests are muffled against her but she does not relent. When he moves to bite her she pulls back just enough to tug his split bottom lip between her teeth. He hisses.

He tastes of blood and anger and a tingling flavour she has never been able to identify. She savours it with a display she knows will incense him further, the tip of her tongue darting salaciously to her own lip. 

An incredulous curse is swallowed by her demanding mouth. He tries to buck her off and she presses back harder, her tongue sweeping to stroke against his. It is not so much a duel as a conquest, and she tastes his imminent surrender in the easing of his jaw.

He struggles for a moment or two more before the fight leaves him. He angles his head to allow her better access, and in an instant the current has turned. This is far from yielding, but they have crossed a threshold into something more and she feels it in his body’s response.

She eases back her arm so that she can tug a fistful of his hair, exposing the long column of his throat. She reverses a slow trail of open-mouthed kisses with the flat of her tongue, licking a deliberate stripe back up to his pulse point. The move elicits a shudder, and she follows this up with nips of her teeth along the angle of his jaw. 

Confident she can now rely on his participation, she releases his arms and angles his head back to meet her. There is no more resistance; he responds to her hungrily this time. His hands find her hips as she kisses him and he pulls her more tightly against his body. 

The friction sends a delicious heat spreading from low in her belly. This was supposed to be for him, but the way her body thrums with the feel of it promises more for them both. She melts into him and loses herself to the heat of his mouth, her arousal growing in warm waves.

She gasps loudly when he flips them both over and she can only roll with it, his weight settling heavily between her legs. He uses his greater height against her and pins her hands above her head, but she does not struggle. Instead she stills as he studies her and turns her face away, refusing him the intimacy of her gaze.

There is a demand in the way she offers her neck. He claims it as his due and she allows her eyes to close. The molten heat of his mouth trails fiery kisses from her chin to her collarbone and she hums in satisfaction. A shiver of pleasure raises goosebumps over her skin as he tongues her delicately, and she arches her back to signal her approval. 

Her fingers flex in his grip, aching to touch and direct. He allows her the freedom to move and she holds him to the sensitive spot he has found, his tongue swirling over it again and again.

He cups her breast in one hand as the other slides meaningfully down her body, angling to slip between the folds of her clothing. His fingers are cool against her overheated skin and she arches as they ghost lightly along the crease of her inner thigh. He teases her like this for several maddening seconds until she tugs sharply at his hair. Her frustration is rewarded only with a smug smile and she wrenches her face away when he tries to capture her mouth.

He will not be so easily thwarted. He instead latches his teeth on the lobe of her ear, and she’s unable to hold back her breathy cry when his fingers finally sweep down over her slit.

He rubs through her slickness with slow, steady strokes, dipping further to gather more moisture and caress her swollen folds. A lick of arousal lights her nerves on fire when he presses the pad of his thumb just so and she pushes into his hand.

This time when he moves to kiss her she opens to him readily, suckling his tongue. An urgent sound escapes her as he circles her with small, insistent motions, and she breaks the kiss to pull in a shuddering breath. She allows this sweet torture for a few moments more before tugging his hand away.

Before he can brace against her she clamps her legs around his hips and twists him back beneath her. She will not allow him to undo her. She will have her satisfaction on her own terms, and she will conquer him before this is done.

He grins arrogantly up at her, and she knows she has much ground to claim back. Her face feels hot and flushed, her breathing laboured. He soaks this up like a war prize and she feels jealousy flicker somewhere in her chest. She cannot lose control of this. She will take his triumph from him. 

The expression falls swiftly from his face when she grasps him tightly through his leathers, a hint of uncertainty flaring in his eyes. She returns his earlier smile as she squeezes, and he stills completely beneath her.

She rocks her palm against him and watches his face as his breathing hitches. 

Sometimes when she takes the power, he wants her to stop. 

He fears losing control just as much as she does, but where she has the strength to retake it if she wants, he has so far been unable to best her at her peak. 

They may not be lovers, but neither are they enemies. This is not a line she would cross even if they were.

He does not tell her to stop, but she sees the decision war on his face. She reads want there, and defiance. She reads a desperate need that he fights hard against. She reads a forbidden desire to relinquish control, to let go to someone else, to stop thinking. These things are not hard to recognise; they belong to her too. 

He needs an excuse to give in. 

She will be that for him, even though he won’t ask. It’s what he’s been for her, when she’s needed it.

The layers he wears infuriate her every time, but she peels his defenses from him and takes him in hand. He gasps into her mouth as she moves and she brings all her skill to bear. She is firm and uncompromising, her movements demanding surrender and leaving little room for doubt. She gets the groan she’s been looking for when she slows just enough to drag her thumb over the head of his cock. 

He knows exactly what she’s doing, and the accusation in his eyes is enough to stoke her hunger. She places one hand against his throat to hold him down and sits back up, adjusting her clothing to suit her purposes. Then she shifts and undulates her body, her wet heat sliding against the length of him in a single sensuous motion. He holds her gaze as she does this and spots of colour appear high on his pale cheekbones. She does it again and he releases a little huff of breath.

He’s not in his head anymore.

The wait is almost more than she can bear, but she lets it build. Again and again she moves, their breathing becoming harsh. His thumbs dig almost painfully into her hip bones where he’s grasping the tops of her thighs and she leans forward against his hold. She holds herself just shy of him, teasing him at the entrance to her body, her own need intensifying as she does so. 

It is a delicious sort of power, and she trembles on the brink of it. 

They lock eyes, and she sinks back. He slides into her with a breathy _haa_ and she bites her lip against her own groan.

A hot and urgent pleasure compels her to move, desire pulsing through her as she rides him. Everything around her narrows to the two of them, to their shared breaths and the place where their bodies join. She adjusts her angle and it’s _good_ , but she doesn’t let her eyes close. 

She sets a faster pace and shifts her grip, responding to the cues of his body, driving him on and drinking it in. He pants with it, his concentration fierce, and she waits. Waits for it to break, waits for him to let go. Almost. Almost…

It’s subtle, but she has learned to read the signs. He shuts his eyes against her, and when he opens them again he releases a broken sound. 

This. This right here. This is why they do this. They are, both of them, chasing something down. Meaning, perhaps. Or a connection. Or perhaps simply oblivion. Something that evades their grasp. Something that can silence the voices for just a few precious seconds.

In their darkest hours, sometimes it is all they can do to forget.

She yanks him up by his collar and straddles his lap, still driving herself onto him. Their mouths crash together and they are lost, him rising with each thrust of her body to meet her, her clinging to him as she nears her release.

She feels the silvery thread of impending orgasm spreading outwards and grinds down on him, her forehead pressed to his. Then her pleasure crests in a flare of white and she does not hold back her cry. 

When she comes back to herself she kisses him again and continues to move, aftershocks coursing through her body and melting a knot at her core. She moans her appreciation for him and his rhythm stutters. He is close, his expression faraway, his breathing harsh. She cups his face, and he screws his eyes shut. There. He is there. 

She holds him to her and slams down on him twice more. She has time to see his face crumple before he buries it at her shoulder and shudders in silence as he comes.

She cradles him against her, his breath gusting across the clammy skin of her neck, and trembles finely in the aftermath of their climax. 

The tension in the body beneath her slowly lessens, and the chilly air massages the sweat at her hairline. The world gradually expands again to a dark and echoing hallway, a cold metal floor beneath her knees and the stale bite of recycled air circulating at her back. They are once again small and diminished, two broken people wrapped around one another against the enormity of their pasts.

He draws back shakily and she cards her fingers through the hair above his ears. He can never look at her after, and this she forgives every time. Holding him in place, she places chaste kisses to his eyelids and the bridge of his nose as she always does, finally releasing him to rise.

There is nothing soft or gentle about what they do, but there is always, _always_ , acceptance.

He pushes at her impatiently as she moves off him and stands too quickly after her. He keeps his back to her as he sets right his clothing and pauses only briefly when he has finished. Without a word or a glance behind, he squares his shoulders and strides from her presence. 

This too she forgives. She is already walking away.


End file.
